Stop the Wedding!

by Stephanie Bond

  “What’s wrong?” Alarm rang clear in Clay’s voice. He covered her knee with his hand. “Annabelle? What is it?”

  She bit her lip to stem the tears, but her chin wouldn’t stop quivering.

  “Annabelle.” She lifted her gaze to see genuine fear in his expression. “For God’s sake, tell me.”

  She sniffed mightily, then touched the button stamped ‘U.S. Army’ with the tip of her finger and tried to smile. “It’s from a vest my dad used to wear.” His favorite item of clothing, a flak vest left over from his stint in the military as a young man. Tattered olive green with baggy pouches that held his favorite pocketknife, his best fishing lures, and the stash of hard candy he loved to share.

  The image of her gray-haired, broad-shouldered father wearing the vest stood out in her mind as clearly as if he were standing next to her. What do you say we go tease the trout in Johns Creek, Anna?

  She closed her fist around the button and pressed her knuckles to her mouth. How had the tiny disc found its way into her boot, and what was she to make of the timing of its discovery? It was as if the button were a sign, a reminder of her promise to her father.

  “You must have been very close to him,” Clay said, his voice surprisingly gentle.

  She nodded, unable to look up. “We used to talk several times a week about a case I was studying or politics or…nothing at all.” A sigh escaped her and she lifted her head. “Sometimes I forget he’s gone and pick up the phone to call him.”

  He made a sympathetic sound, and removed a monogrammed handkerchief from his back pocket. “Here.” Relief that he wasn’t laughing at her quickly evaporated when she remembered Belle saying that Clay’s mother had died when he was very young.

  “Do you remember your mother?” she ventured as she wiped her cheeks, almost breathless to breach such a personal boundary. The songbirds in the branches above them suddenly seemed very loud.

  Clay scooped a pinecone from the ground and ran his thumb down the side. “Yes. Although I’ve looked at her pictures so often, sometimes I wonder if I just remember the poses.”

  Her heart cracked for the little dark-haired boy who must have adored his glamorous mother. “How old were you when she died?”

  He drew back his arm and casually tossed the pinecone into the woods, and for a few seconds she thought he wasn’t going to answer. Then he looked back to her, his face impassive. “I was nine. My mother had several miscarriages after she gave birth to me, and she was thrilled to finally carry another baby to full-term. But the delivery was complicated, and she died.”

  “What—” Annabelle swallowed. “What about the baby?”

  “Stillborn. A girl.”

  She pressed her lips together. “Oh, Clay, I’m so sorry.”

  He gave her a sad smile. “It was a long time ago.”

  “Your father must have been devastated.”

  Clay nodded. “Honestly, I don’t think he ever truly recovered.” A frown pulled at the corners of his mouth. “Hence the parade of women through his life.”

  And his son’s, she realized, who’d had to share his father’s attention when he’d needed him most. Resentment ballooned in her stomach toward Martin, reinforcing her opinion that he wasn’t the kind of man to whom she would entrust her mother.

  “Clay?” Martin’s voice rang out. “Is everything okay?”

  Speak of the devil. Annabelle scowled.

  “We’ll be right there,” she and Clay yelled in unison, then looked at each other and smiled awkwardly.

  Glad for the lighter moment, Annabelle bent to reclaim her boot and promptly banged heads with Clay—hard. She moaned and lifted a hand to explore the onset of a knot.

  “Sorry,” he said, laughing and massaging his own forehead.

  “Just a reminder of how hard-headed we both are,” she offered, managing a smile through the pain.

  “I’ll take care of your boot,” Clay said, waiting for her slight nod before he knelt again. Her breath came in shallow little gulps as he held open the thick-soled boot and slipped her foot inside as gently as if he held a glass slipper. He rested her foot on his thigh, his knee to the ground, and methodically drew up the gold-colored laces. Her heart hammered as she watched his fingers, wide and blunt-tipped, securing the ankle-high boot. This man puzzled her—one minute she disliked him, and the next she…she....

  “There,” he said, patting her boot. He met her gaze and gave her a little smile that made her heart jerk. “Wow, you’re going to have a goose egg,” he said, lifting his hand to her forehead.

  Struck silent by the electricity of his touch, she could barely breathe. A second later, his eyes changed from rueful to regretful, an odd expression on which to lean forward and claim a kiss, she thought fleetingly.

  Chapter Twelve

  ANNABELLE CLOSED HER EYES a split second before his mouth descended on hers. The salt of perspiration, the warmth of sunned skin, the sweetness of surprise mingled on her tongue, and she reveled in the familiar textures of his mouth. He had controlled the first kiss, they had shared the second kiss, but she took possession of this one, coaxing him closer and deeper with her tongue. He came willingly, his lips firm and responsive, following her cues. A surge of female power gave her the energy to loop her arms around his neck. In answer, Clay’s hands slipped to her waist, but he held her loosely, as if she might break.

  The kiss took on a life of its own, gaining momentum and transferring pent-up frustrations and desires and emotions that were foreign to Annabelle. She strained against him blindly, not knowing what she wanted, only that she wanted more. But through the swirl of red passion, a rustling sound reached her ears. She stiffened and Clay drew away, swinging his head toward the noise on the path behind them.

  Her gaze flew to the rise where her parents had vanished—what if they’d seen the kiss? After scanning the ridge, she sighed in relief, but her face burned from the near-miss. What was she thinking? How credible of an advisor could she be for her mother if she was indulging in stolen kisses with a man she barely knew—or liked, for that matter. Annabelle’s mind spun—she had to get herself together.

  Meanwhile, below them, a thin man with binoculars around his neck came into view. His safari-style hat and handheld guide identified him as a bird watcher. He waved with animation. Clay stood and pulled Annabelle to her feet, his expression perturbed.

  “The trail’s not too crowded today,” the man observed with a tip of his hat as he passed them.

  “Speak for yourself,” Clay muttered at the man’s back.

  Annabelle laughed behind her hand, allowing herself to wonder where the kiss would have led if not for the timely interruption. She tingled under Clay’s scrutiny, sensing he was just as confused by their kisses as she was. “Annabelle, I—”

  “We’d better get going,” she cut in, swallowing hard. “We still have a job to do.”

  He pursed his mouth and considered her for a few seconds, his gaze lingering on her lips before moving on. Then he simply nodded, and gestured for her to precede him on the path.

  She exhaled and straightened her clothing unnecessarily, then marched ahead of him with as much dignity as she could salvage. Her wantonness shamed her. With every step up the dusty red clay path, she chastised herself. Clay Castleberry tried to buy you off, remember?

  The man represented most of the things in life she railed against—entitlement, arrogance, superiority. He doesn’t think your mother is good enough to marry his father, but he thinks you’re good enough to trifle with. He thinks you’re engaged, for goodness sake.

  Her world was a cramped office on the twelfth floor of a state building in Detroit, Michigan. How foolish to expose her heart to a rich globe-trotter. He mocked your measly state job—he’d never understand the satisfaction it gives you, helping women balance the scales against oppressive spouses.

  Annabelle picked up the pace, digging her boots into the sandy soil, eating up the ground between them and their parents. Clay’s footsteps crunc
hed behind her, but she tried to squash the awareness of him skittering over her arms. She’d marveled over the gullibility of her mother, yet scant minutes ago she’d allowed tingly feelings and base attraction to compromise her own self-respect.

  Grasping the trunk of a tree to leverage herself, she stepped up on the rocky ridge and followed the narrow footpath around an enormous boulder. A few yards down the trail, the natural stone wall beneath her left hand led to a plateau, a sparsely wooded area off the trail, heavily carpeted with pine straw and dotted with picnic tables. Martin and Belle leaned against one, kissing.

  Anna, promise me you’ll look after your mother if something happens to me.

  “Hi, Mom,” she yelled through cupped hands, effectively distracting the older couple. She waved with enthusiasm and hurried over to the table on which their picnic lunch was already spread.

  *****

  Clay watched Annabelle walk across the clearing, irritated that he had folded under her kiss, especially since he still didn’t trust her. If he were going to get Martin out of this mess and return to his own business concerns in Paris, he’d have to keep a clear head. And that meant reverting to his previous plan to join forces with Annabelle only to dissuade their parents from marrying.

  “What took you so long, dear?” Belle asked, casting an anxious glance over both of them. She probably thought they were arguing, he realized. If she only knew.

  “Remember that flak vest Daddy used to wear?” Annabelle asked, her voice breezy.

  Belle stopped, her full attention on her daughter. “Of course.”

  She held up the button. “Look what was in the bottom of my boot. How do you suppose it got there?”

  As her mother took the button, Clay found himself studying Annabelle. Was the entire incident a setup? If so, what could the women possibly hope to gain? And deep in his heart he didn’t want to believe that Annabelle would stoop to using the memory of her father as some kind of a ploy.

  “It must have fallen off his vest and into your boot when I was packing away those things,” Belle murmured, seemingly far away.

  “This place is beautiful.” Pink-nosed Annabelle changed the subject abruptly, lifting her arms and turning in a circle, encompassing the green, moist landscape. Using her phone, she snapped several photos of the incredible view, a few of Belle and Martin, and to his chagrin, one of him.

  Clay squirmed. Never at ease in front of a camera, he was especially unnerved at the idea of Annabelle having a photo of him—it seemed familiar and intimate. Then he chastised himself for reading too much into a simple gesture—one might think he was projecting his own muddled feelings onto the woman.

  Meanwhile, Annabelle put one arm around Belle’s shoulder, and the other around Martin’s shoulder. “Thank you for inviting us to come along. I’m having a great time.” She gave him a pointed look.

  Clay narrowed his eyes—what a little chameleon she was. Following her lead, he nodded his agreement. Actually, he was enjoying himself more than he’d expected. It was the fresh air, he reasoned. Invigorating.

  “In fact, I think you should continue to celebrate your anniversary every month even after you’re married.” Annabelle kissed her mother’s cheek, then took a seat at the table.

  Clay bit down on his cheek. Where was this headed?

  “We just might,” Martin said, winking at Belle, then he leaned over to snatch a pickle from a vegetable-laden paper plate.

  “With the failure rate of repeat marriages,” Annabelle continued in a casual tone, “it’s probably best to take it a month at a time.” She plucked a celery stick from the plate and bit into it, snapping off the end with gusto.

  Clay suppressed a smile, shed his own backpack and removed a bottle of water. “She’s right,” he added. “You two were smart to set a precedent of celebrating every month—so many couples never even reach their one-year anniversary.”

  At the wary exchange of glances between Martin and Belle, he knew they had struck a nerve, so he kept talking. “Was that your idea, Dad?”

  Belle’s gaze was glued on Martin. “Yes,” she answered for him, her tone tinged with suspicion.

  “Ah, that makes sense,” Clay said to Annabelle as he swung his leg over the bench seat next to Martin, opposite his accomplice. “Because Dad’s last four marriages didn’t make it to the one-year mark.”

  Annabelle made a sympathetic noise, then swept her gaze over the food-laden table. “Whew, I’m starved.”

  “My stomach has been growling for the last two miles,” Clay chimed in, then unwrapped the sandwich on the plate in front of him and lifted the top piece of crusty bread to appraise the filling. “Why is it everything tastes better in the outdoors?” He addressed their parents, but Belle still stared at his father, unsmiling.

  “Everything Belle prepares is a delight,” Martin boasted, oblivious to the tense undercurrents. “She’s a wonderful cook.”

  Annabelle nodded her agreement, swallowing. “So, Martin, you expect Mom to cook, what—three meals a day?”

  Clay chewed a bite of his roast turkey club. Surely his dad was smart enough to dodge that land mine.

  “Of course not,” Martin said, patting Belle’s hand. “Two meals a day will suit me fine.”

  Clay winced. Belle shot Martin a sharp glance.

  “Well, you’re right about Mom’s cooking,” Annabelle said, licking mustard from her finger. “Has she made you her special fried pork chops with biscuits and gravy?”

  Martin nodded, moaning in appreciation, which elicited a forgiving smile from Belle.

  Clay took a long drink of water, studying Annabelle. For someone who was trying to get to his father’s money, she was doing a good job of sabotaging the engagement. Could he have been wrong? Could Henry have been mistaken? A blow to his shin beneath the table took his breath, and he nearly choked. Annabelle’s eyes widened meaningfully, and he realized she expected him to jump in.

  “Um, Dad, didn’t you tell your agent you’d drop ten pounds by Labor Day to emcee that fitness award show?”

  Martin’s hand stopped, a deviled egg halfway to his mouth, and looked down at his midsection. “You’re right, son, I did.” He returned the fattening morsel to his plate, and gave Belle an apologetic look. “Perhaps you could start cooking lighter meals. It would be good for both of us, Belle.”

  Annabelle gasped. “You think my mom is fat? I think she looks fabulous, don’t you, Clay?”

  At the bewildered look on his father’s face, Clay almost felt sorry for him, but he reminded himself he had Martin’s best interests at heart. “Yeah, Dad, Belle looks great. I don’t know what you’re talking about.”

  Belle stood abruptly, her expression hurt. “I’m not twenty-one, Martin.”

  Martin jumped to his feet. “I know you’re not twenty-one! If I’d wanted a twenty-one-year-old—”

  “Again,” Annabelle injected.

  “—again,” he repeated involuntarily, “I would’ve proposed to a twenty-one-year-old!”

  “Again?” Belle asked, leaned forward to plant her hands on the table. “And just exactly when was the last time you dated a twenty-one-year-old?”

  “Wasn’t Barbie twenty-one?” Clay asked his father, then removed the tomato from his sandwich. She was the last lover Clay had bought off.

  “No!” Martin thundered. “She was twenty-five!”

  “Who is Barbie?” Belle demanded.

  “She’s no one,” Martin hurried to explain. “Just a girl who had a crush on me…a long time ago.”

  “For shame, Martin,” Belle said, crossing her arms. “That’s younger than my own daughter!”

  “But I didn’t marry her!”

  Clay watched the drama unfolding, unable to believe that a few well-placed statements could have triggered such bedlam. Across the table, Annabelle quirked one eyebrow in triumph and chewed her food slowly.

  He swallowed. The woman was frighteningly good at manipulation—there was a lesson to be learned here.

>   “Did the girl sign a prenuptial agreement?” Annabelle whispered loudly to Clay, although the comment was clearly meant to be overhead.

  “No,” he replied, which was true because she’d taken the pay-off money and disappeared.

  Belle’s jaw fell and she glared at Martin. “Is that why you’re picking a fight? Because I haven’t signed a prenuptial agreement?”

  “Of course not!” Martin thundered.

  “Have the papers drawn up,” Belle declared. “I’ll have Annabelle take a look at them and make sure I’m not being taken advantage of.”

  Clay cleared his throat. “But how could you be taken advantage of if the money belongs to my father?”

  “My mother has assets of her own,” Annabelle said, standing and planting her hands on the table in front of him.

  Clay stood and leaned toward her. “The situation is hardly comparable.”

  Annabelle’s mouth tightened. “Mom,” she said, not taking her eyes off him, “the first day I met Clay—”

  “Annabelle—” he warned, shaking his head.

  “—he thought I was Martin’s fiancée, and he offered me twenty thousand dollars to walk away.”

  “Clay,” Martin admonished. “You didn’t!”

  Clay shifted his gaze to his father. “You know it wouldn’t have been the first time I’ve had to pay off a woman for you, Dad.”

  “Martin!” Belle cried. “Is that true?”

  While his father fumbled for an answer, Annabelle crossed her arms and donned a satisfied smile. “Clay told me Martin expected him to make the offer to get him off the hook of marrying you.”

  “I think it’s time to go home,” Belle said, her voice tremulous. She began shoving food into containers. A deviled egg slid across the table and rolled off, plopping onto the ground.

  Martin put his fingers to his temples. “Would somebody tell me what just happened?”

  “Dad,” Clay said quietly, then made a cutting motion with his hand.